Standzone
by TraditionalGaily
Summary: In which Buccellati and Abbacchio get dragged into someone else's marital dispute. And all because of a stupid brooch.


_Moody Blues is acting strange for reasons yet to be discovered.  
Buccellati learns that the hard way. _

_Also the liquor Buccellati hides from Abbacchio gets drained.  
And refilled.  
With what Abbacchio doesn't want to speculate on. _

_Giorno is terrible at interior design, at least in Abbacchio's opinion.  
Too much greenery.  
On second note they should probably call an exterminator.  
Or a stable lad. (Someone's got to feed the zebra)_

_In which Buccellati and Abbacchio get dragged into someone else's marital dispute. _  
_And all because of a stupid brooch._

* * *

_Fucking teacher's pet. _

Abbacchio watched from his spot at the far end of the room, nonchalantly lounging on the windowsill as if waiting for a painter looking for a model for 'Disinterest, the allegory' to pop by, Giorno forcing Buccellati into a conversation the latter would have loved to terminate ten minutes ago.

They waited until Giorno left.

Then Buccellati turned somewhat reluctant to Abbacchio.

"Shall we...um..."

"Yeah, well...let's get this over with..."

Team dismissed (hence vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but Mista's peculiar body odour as a trace of their former existence), Abbacchio followed Buccellati upstairs into _a_ parlour.

_A_ parlour; there were multiple ones!  
The villa Buccellati had occupied after the former owner had bitten the bullet (Nr 3 to be exact) was huge. So no more Narancia riddling the wall with ammo in the middle of the night while trying to get Fugo and Mista off his back.  
(He still did; they fought almost every night, but the screams and shouts wouldn't reach Abbacchio's room.)

So they had separate rooms now with plenty of space to blow off steam, no longer living practically on top of each other.  
If you knew which corridors to avoid you could go through the day in solitude.  
(Minus Buccellati; doors didn't apply to him)

Abbacchio followed, maintaining a safe distance at all times.

After checking for possible eavesdroppers in the adjacent rooms, Buccellati closed the door.  
Then he chose a nice spot, deliberately or not, in the centre of some pricey Persian rug.  
And just stood there rubbing his temples irritably.

"Ok...let's try this once more..."

His heartbeat increasing Abbacchio nodded at the command.  
Carefully he approached Buccellati as one would a rabbit with heart conditions.  
And froze in mid-move as Moody Blues sprung forth at Buccellati, fists raised; stopping only inches away as his range wouldn't let him go any further from Abbacchio.  
Waiting in mid-charge; ready to continue his attack at any offered opportunity.

_So he was still doing this. _

_Shit. _

What had happened?

Neither Buccellati nor Abbacchio knew.  
Well, of course they knew _what_ had happened, but the _why _they were still guessing at.

Fact was, earlier this day with all of them gathered after a mission, Buccellati had suddenly been face to face with the ground.  
One minute engrossed in a motivational speech, next minute kissing the marble.  
Only there weren't any folds in the rug to trip over.

The others hadn't, but both Buccellati and Abbacchio had seen the stylish métallisé arm retreating into his User.

Not counting the incident inside the parlour right now, Moody Blues had launched two more attacks aimed at Buccellati, though the second one had been forestalled by Sticky Fingers.

_Range_, Abbacchio thought as he took a few steps backwards, Moody Blues deflating in the process.  
_He attacks him if he comes within range..._

Abbacchio was pissed off.  
There were so many reasons _he _wanted to smack Buccellati for, but since when did Moody Blues nurture a grudge against him?

All in all, the whole thing was ridiculous.  
But Abbacchio hadn't found a way to punish his Stand for this childish behaviour.  
Yet.

"No, it's alright. Just don't move," Buccellati told Abbacchio over the sound of zippers clanking and warning churns; Sticky Fingers pushing forward until he'd graze the invisible circle Moody Blues was so desperately defending.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Abbacchio snarled at his stubborn Stand; speakers locked onto Sticky Fingers' eyeless gaze, display flickering alarmingly in sync with the clicking and whirring noises coming from inside.

So finally living up to the 'moody' part, eh?  
Anyway Abbacchio would have loved to call back this 80's time bomb.  
Only that he couldn't.

_Shit_.

"No...just stay put."

Buccellati gestured at Abbacchio while he stepped closer.  
But to the latter's surprise Moody Blues didn't target him but increased his grip on the Stand opposite, only to switch back to Buccellati as he called back his Stand.  
Who then leapt from its range.

"I think..." Buccellati coughed getting up again rubbing his chin.

He hadn't been quick enough, though.

"I'm sorry," Abbacchio stepped closer as a reflex and Buccellati dived under the dashing angry disco ball of Moody Blues.

"It's fine, I'm fine..."

Buccellati dusted himself off while getting up.

"And I don't think it's me he's after, but _him..._"

Emphasising his theory, the see-through outlines of Sticky Fingers materialised.

And coming down with his full force Moody Blues charged at it.

"Ok, let's recap what we have so far..."

Seemingly undisturbed by the kicking and punching ball of Stands rolling across the floor, Buccellati helped himself to more tea.  
Abbacchio stared; straight up stared at their two detached worse halves tossing and turning on the rug, jolted by the occasional punch in the guts or more delicate parts hitting him via their mental bond.

"So, there is this unquenchable desire within Moody Blues to knock out cold Sticky Fingers and...uh..."

Buccellati doubled over, a small cut appearing on his cheek, but sat up instantly again brushing off the invisible attack.

"And where does it come from? Is there a reason to this behaviour? Sorry..."

The last part was for the tea he had spilled on Abbacchio's pants, unable to suppress the spasm in his left shoulder.  
He dabbed at it with a napkin before burying his nails in his thighs.

"God, I didn't even know your Stand had nails to scratch with? And a pretty sturdy bite considering he has no mouth...I'm so sorry..."

He dabbed at some more spilled tea.

"He keeps kicking my shins," Abbacchio lamented.

It was stupid.  
But he didn't know what else to say.  
At this point he didn't even know what to think anymore.

The Stands got up staring at each other heavily breathing.  
Then Moody Blues charged again.

"In short: Why...uh..."

For a moment there Abbacchio thought Buccellati was really going to lose it.  
But he pretended his arm wasn't twisted back, a knee rammed into his Stand's back holding it in place, and finished:

"Why are they fighting? What have we got so far?"

"Nothing..."

Abbacchio felt like crying.  
He had had a long day, was shamed by his Stands misbehaviour in front of Buccellati and now had received a second-hand beating for the past twenty minutes.  
But most of all: this was the first time his Stand wasn't behaving like a lovesick fool and he couldn't enjoy it.  
Life was treating him unfair.

He couldn't indulge in his own alcoholism either.  
Too much spilling with all the blows he was dealt...

"Nothing...I don't have the slightest idea..."

Buccellati had reached his limit as well.

"That's enough, I won't sit here while...Wait, wait!"

Surprisingly the Stands stopped in mid-clash; Moody Blues falling over Sticky Fingers at Buccellati's barked command.

_Fear the man the Stands obey_, Abbacchio thought and watched as Buccellati approached them.

"Oh, no..."

A marital dispute.

'No', Abbacchio had corrected him, 'it couldn't be a marital dispute since they weren't married in the first place.' but at this point Buccellati had stopped listening to Abbacchio's rant.

Moody Blues was no longer wearing the ring he and Sticky Fingers had exchanged (God, if Abbacchio was to find out who had spurred on this madness there would be a thrashing.)

_Also: Fear the man who counsels the Stands. _

Abbacchio needed a drink.  
Like right now and one bottle would no longer suffice.

Their Stands standing opposite each other, but facing different directions, no longer hostile (Well, as docile as a couple at a divorce lawyer's. Let's settle for: their behaviour was tolerable.).  
And of course with Buccellati, sitting on the couch between them, eyes curiously darting from Stand to Stand.

"This is ridiculous..." Abbacchio began but was waved into silence.

"Shh..."

And after adding three more sugar cubes to his tea he said:

"At least their talking, now..."

And a trifle quieter.

"Oh, their first argument..."

How about a gallon.  
Yep, a gallon would probably do it.  
Preferably Scotch, but at this point Abbacchio wouldn't be picky.  
So he was pissed off for not being pissed, forced (Buccellati had locked all doors, fuck him) to witness the all too domestic scene their fry-brained Stands were pulling off.

There was no sense in asking what Buccellati had meant by his previous comment. (The talking part; Abbacchio totally got how Buccellati held this unhealthy obsession with their Stand being lovers)  
Actually Abbacchio had come to the conclusion that there was no sense in Bruno Buccellati whatsoever.

Anyway he'd soon see it himself.  
Body language.

They needn't talk.  
It was all displayed openly, a glance cast over the shoulder, a shrug there...  
All ready to be deciphered and interpreted.

And worst of all, Abbacchio knew, he just fucking knew what the two of them were arguing over.  
The short time spent in uniform had been enough to burn the image into his brain.  
He just fucking knew it...

"Oh, it's got something to do with...casualties? No? A deliberate fight then. An enemy Stand? Not an enemy?"

...unlike Buccellati who enjoyed guessing at their non-verbal communication.

"Hah, I know that one: 'I can't believe you'd do this to me!'" Buccellati vocalised the unspoken words pantomimed before them and nudged Abbacchio's side, "Come on, this is fun."

"No it's not," Abbacchio crossed his arms, "and I resent how you do Moody Blues' voice in a higher pitch."

"'It wasn't my fault?'" ignoring the previous comment, Buccellati kept translating what he thought Sticky Fingers response was to that.

"Or maybe something in the line of 'What are you talking about?' 'I don't know what you're saying?'? Help me out on that one Leone, will you?"

Abbacchio sighed (Since when were they on cordial terms? This was a one-time permission given considering the circumstances.), but decided on letting it slip.  
For now.

"Please don't make me say it..."

Now Buccellati was all over him.

"Alright, spill!"

Oh, God he would never live it down.

So against his better judgement Abbacchio told him.

"Adultery?!"

Before Buccellati could pepper him with uncomfortable questions Abbacchio continued:

"Don't ask me 'how?' or 'when?' But this is the textbook example of infidelity. The housewife waiting at the door step; "Went to see your slut again, haven't you!" echoing through the corridors; china shattering..."

"You may be overly dramatic here."

Buccellati revoked his previous statement.  
He pulled back the arm he had unzipped and placed the vase back on the glass table he had caught in mid-haul.

"On second note, you may be absolutely right..."

"Not the good china," Abbacchio admonished Moody Blues reaching for the teapot for his next shot.

"So Moody Blues suspects him of having an affair."

They both watched uncomfortably as their Stands went from stage 1: verbal argument, (a little detour through stage 2: shard valley, with two cups one saucer and a candlestick caught thanks to Buccellati's zipper-extended arms) to stage 3: touchy-feely forgiveness seeking.

"At this point I stopped arguing, so yes, carry on. I won't correct you..."

Abbacchio felt utterly defeated and was close to accepting his fate when Buccellati said:

"Alright, what do we do about that?"

"Excuse me?"

Cheats: DIVINE INTERVENTION  
Health bar refilled, Abbacchio was back in the game.  
Puzzled, shocked and thoroughly questioning Buccellati's sanity, but back in the game.

"How can we help them? This is serious, Leone; a first hurdle they must overcome together and where are you going?"

And Abbacchio was gone.  
Not in a cloud of smoke, but via a red jewel.

#1 of Team Buccellati?  
Definitely Coco Jumbo.  
House-trained or not you could always rely on him.

"Just the tortoise I wanted to see," once inside Abbacchio stretched envying the solitude.

Then he saw the butterflies.  
And bees.  
And birds.  
And the plants.  
And in the middle of it all the former settee and coffee table now partially engulfed in morning glories.

The couch was still there. It looked like someone had dumped it in the middle of the fucking rain forest. Alongside the lodger still sitting on it.  
Ok, the four lodgers.

"The hell is going on here?"

Abbacchio's tone of voice was more amicable than expected.  
Perhaps he had just given up on life in general.

"Hell..." Narancia tasted the word not sure if he liked it.  
Drunk, yep, definitely drunk Narancia.  
Braiding Giorno's hair, yep, drunk too, no doubt about that.

"Hell..." drunk Mista tried.

"Hell...hell..." drunk Fugo joined in.

"No, heaven..."

Giorno minus one brooch (Whatever it had turned into and crawled away) was lounging on the couch deciphering the wisdoms of the worlds while his disciples hung on his lips, or just onto any surface that would stabilise them.

"We could rule the world," he muttered, scratching Mista's hair with a sound the human scalp shouldn't be able to make. (But this was Mista, go figure.)

"We are the world," Narancia suggested starting another braid.

"The world we are," Panacotta 'Nazi-Grammar' Fugo corrected; drunk and angry, not a preferable blend.

"The world is we." Giorno clarified.

A row of 'ahs' and 'ohs' filled the jungle at this epiphany.

Admittedly the rays of sunlight (How the hell did they get sunlight in here?!) illuminating the flock were impressive. But so were tigers and you needn't share a confined space with them and oh God, whom did those eyes peeking through the bushes belong to?  
Were those stripes?

"Join us," Giorno waved his hand in Abbacchio's direction.  
Or at least in the direction he believed Abbacchio to be and not his booze induced twin.

Stepping closer Abbacchio's foot brushed against a round object, which rolled away. Not far as it hit clinkingly into another bottle.

"...thish ish Abbacchiosh' shtash...Bucc...Buccellall..."

Mista raised his head a little.

"How many 'las'h in Bucce..."

"Capo," Fugo offered and slithered further down the chair leg he was holding onto.

"...thanksh...Fuuugo...capo thinksh itsh shave...shinsh you never shpent much...time with ush inshide...here. Sho we ushually raid and afterwardsh GioGioGioGio..."

Abbacchio resisted the urge to slap Mista.  
He wouldn't have made it, Narancia was quicker.

"...thish guy here..."

Waving a finger under Giorno's nose.

"he jusht...bangsh...no, bang..."

"I've decided I'm not that interested in your story anymore," Abbacchio paled.

"Giorno turns it back into wine," Fugo offered tightly hugging his only friend the chair leg.

"...exshactly...thanksh...Fuuugo...bang...wine again...aweshome ishn't it Abbacchio..."

Then as if remembering something important he motioned for Abbacchio to step closer; against his better judgment he did.

"...but don't tell Abbacchio...or he'll be pisshed..."

"I won't next time I see him," Abbacchio tried before it sunk in.

"What do you mean raiding my stash?!"

The entire upper shelf was gone, but Narancia told him not to worry, they'd done this before. Raid, refill the bottles with any liquid available (Abbacchio didn't even want to guess at that part) and then have Giorno turn it back into wine.  
Or vodka.  
Or Scotch.  
They'd felt adventurous this time.

Abbacchio looked at the common morpho who took a rest on his knuckles.

"Why are there so many butterflies?"

"Wanna see it?" Narancia asked and hurled an empty bottle at a nearby tree trunk.

It shattered, exploded into shards and splinters, but against all laws of gravity they surged upwards and turned into a swarm of colourful lepidopterans.

"Awesome isn't it?"

Abbacchio looked at Giorno, who was seemingly content with this display.

"Why? The fuck why!?"

"Buccellati will get suspicious if he finds shards of glass," chair-hugger Fugo mumbled into an orchid.

"And an infestation of butterflies is not as suspicious as fuck?!"

That unsettled the flock a little.

"Climate change," Giorno explained and the rest sighed in relief.  
"You won't snitch on us, will you Abbacchio?"

The addressee crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Name one reason why I shouldn't."

"I'll give you these," Girono retrieved two bottles from behind the couch, "they still got a cork so nothing to worry there..."

"Deal," Abbacchio said and caught the bottles.  
Then he leaned against a near camphor tree, half-emptying one in a go.

Ah, sweet intoxication.

"Fine," he said, "but someone will have to tell Buccellati about the Zebra..." the bush he was pointing at, better yet, its munching inhibitor hiding further between the leaves.

And turned to leave, Mista reminding him once again how he shouldn't tell Abbacchio about all of this.

So, how was the couple doing?  
And why was he referring to them as couple?

Abbacchio finished bottle number one.

"And?" he asked Bruno 'Marriage Counsellor' Buccellati who had them both sit (Fucking sit, like fucking people.) at either end of the chaise lounge.

"They're no longer fighting and I think Moody Blues has calmed down a bit, but..."

Here he paused inspecting Abbacchio's coat.

"Is this a golden pheasant's feather on your sleeve?"

"But we haven't found out what this is all about, eh?" Abbacchio brushed aside the question as well as the incriminating feather.  
Damn that ornithological bastard.

"Not really, it's just that...see that, he's doing that again..."

Abbacchio watched as Moody Blues ran his fingers over Sticky Fingers' torso. Trailing the same spot over and over again. As if searching for something.  
Lipstick marks.

"Lipstick marks," Abbacchio vocalised the final station in his train of thought,"...Buccellati, can you get Sticky Fingers to open a zipper just on that spot?"

He did so and pulled free one of Giorno's brooches, just as expected.

"Moody Blues must have seen, or probably felt it. You know just like with lipstick marks. A different Stand leaving traces..."

Moody Blues flashed his speakers at Sticky Fingers hard-pressed for an explanation.

"But this wasn't, I mean," Buccellati tucked his bangs behind his ear, "Giorno gave that one to me filled with life, you know, for combat. He said I'd just have to press it against the desired spot and it would rebuild...parts..."

"And I thought it would be a good idea to keep it at hand and so...oh, I'm so sorry..."

_Fear the man who apologises to Stands. _

Anyway, Abbacchio was down half his second bottle and now finally enjoying the show of Buccellati mediating.

"...so as you see this is all just one big misunderstanding. Sticky Fingers would never cheat on you..."

"Don't listen to him," Abbacchio interjected, "he's done it before and he will do it again..."

"What?" he shrugged at the three reproachful glances he was shot.

"...but that's about it...no harm done...just a silly misunderstanding...Gold Experience is still in the friend zone..."

"Stand zone," Abbacchio corrected and took another swig.

"You know what pisses me really off," he continued once Buccellati was dropping down on the chaise lounge next to him (good), with their Stands and their reinforced bond reclining opposite them (not so good) and Moody Blues doing a lot of apologetic whirring (worse).

"How Moody Blues could doubt for just one second Sticky Fingers would prefer the golden Art Deco Ladybug thing over him."

"Probably lacks self-confidence..."

Buccellati put an arm around Abbacchio's shoulder (Alright, what was going on here?)

"...you know...like some..."

And Abbacchio would have protested.  
Hadn't he suddenly found his mouth occupied.

A quick glance over at the couple on the settee confirmed that they had once again moved to ground level, because nothing says good place to fornicate quiet like a rug, Goddamnit.

No shame, nothing new there, only novelty here was Moody Blues going down on Sticky Fingers.  
And Abbacchio wouldn't tolerate it.

Just a quick break so Moody Blues, sick bastard and a natural at deep throating could gaze into Sticky Fingers eyes was enough.

"Moody Bl..."

And the command would stay unfinished, thanks to Buccellati slapping a hand across his mouth.

"No you don't!" he wrestled him down and pinned him to the floor with his body weight.

"You can't interrupt them; they're having make-up sex..."

Abbacchio's further attempts to call back his Stand were forestalled as Moody Blues was letting it slip back in to the hilt, churning with delight.

Pressed flat against the marble, Abbacchio could feel every inch of (oh God) Sticky Fingers rubbing, pushing against his soft palate, slowly throttling him and that bastard Buccellati moaning and grunting down his neck (And please let it be a taper candle Buccellati hadn't caught, pressing against his stomach) wouldn't budge.  
So yeah, way to spend your evening off.

Sticky Fingers couldn't last long, thank God for that.

And dignity restored (loading 24%) and secretly high in the afterglow of their second-hand oral sex; both Abbacchio and Buccellati were sitting again on the chaise lounge drinking cold tea in awkward silence.  
Opposite the clicking and churning lovebirds spooning for a little while longer.

"Well," Buccellati slapped Abbacchio's thigh (And why did it feel so right?) conversationally, "I guess all's well that ends well...and oh look, Sticky Fingers had found the ring and kept it all the time for Moody Blues, isn't that romantic..."

Being nudge in the ribs Abbacchio went : "Nah."

"And what's this?"

Abbacchio watched as Sticky Fingers detached a single envelope from one opened zipper before Moody Blues grabbed along, handing it over to Buccellati together.

"Look, it's got both our names on it..."

Abbacchio cast a glance at Sticky Fingers, no result as usual, before switching over to Moody Blues.  
Who hid behind his partner, aha.

"Please tell me this is an apology for all the inconvenience they have caused us alongside a permission to have them neutered."

"No." Buccellati said.

"Then I don't want to know."

"It's a wedding invitation."


End file.
